Lack Of Color
by aevum245
Summary: Learning to love is easy. Learning to forgive isn't exactly a walk in the park. A post-war Harry grudgingly allows a disheveled Draco to live in his flat for protection. Piece-by-piece, Draco and Harry begin to scrape away at one another's cryptic past.
1. The Celestial City

**Title: **Lack of Color

**Author:** aevum245

**Rating:** _**MATURE AUDIENCES ONLY **_for explicit language, ideologically sensitive material, violence, and extremely sexual content.

**Warning(s): **Slash, character death, mentions of rape, abuse, and sexual assault, as well as bondage and other sexual references.

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and various situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling and various publishers. This piece of fiction is used for entertainment purposes only and retains no intentions of soliciting for cash value or profit. I claim no ownership of the created characters nor their affiliated backgrounds and information. No copyright infringement intended.

**Author's Note (PLEASE READ): This story has multiple intentions. It started out as a personal vice but turned into so much more. I feel like this tale's themes and morals must be found by you, the reader, not to be told by me. However, I would like to point out a few words that will never be directly mentioned that I dearly hope you research to fully understand their nature. Here is the aforementioned list: **_Agoraphobia, Social anxiety, The Division of Shame and Guilt, Haphephobia, Poinephobia_. **As I have previously mentioned these words and ideas will NOT (for the most part) be mentioned directly. However they all are EXTREMELY important to the plot and my eventual message. I have had many personal encounters with these concepts and hope that this story will touch you enough to understand their brutal nature. Thank you for your time.**

Chapter One - _The Celestial City_

Some of your hurts you have cured,  
>And the sharpest you still have survived,<br>But what torments of grief you endured  
>From the evil which never arrived.<br>~Ralph Waldo Emerson

The final days of Spring were unquestioningly warmer than normal. The populous of London streets busied themselves with ice cream and the sing-song melody of the endemic mockingbird. Flowers and other vegetation were the only witness to the suppressed wild-life which clung to to the shadows in awe-inspired fear. The lights of the city dazzled and sparked, blinding a deer here or startling a raccoon there. Every once in a while, an unfortunate rabbit would surmise the courage to bound across one of the many vast London streets. In one lamentable moment, the life of the innocent would be whisked away by the heart of human progress. A little boy brandishing wicked blond hair and inquisitive emerald eyes stopped to stare at the fresh carcass of the poor animal, suddenly losing interest in his dessert. A small frown is all he can manage before his mother whisks him away to join the rest of humanity in their monotonous agenda.

The sun was nearing its descent from view and, like clockwork, the bright lights of the city exploded over the horizon. Defying natural law, no man or woman was deterred by the loss of the sun and pranced around the gravel with little remorse for its twelve-hour leave. A corner cafe' explodes with the sound of rock music. A brawl begins just outside a local pub. Children chase each other in a domesticated park. A group of women gossip about the new neighbors quirks and idiosyncrasies. The lights still shine; each a star in a crowded constellation. A slender brunette shuts his curtains to hide from the celestial city.

Harry James Potter turned from the bleak window to his contrastingly dimmed living room. The flat rested comfortably on the third floor of a relatively new housing complex residing near London's busy streets. The noise didn't bother Harry. No, the noise made him happy. The speeding cars and laughing children reminded him that life went on without his presence. But the _lights_! Those damned _lights_!

He sullenly sunk into his black and blue laced armchair and breathed through his nose with manual restraint. As any nobody would notice, time did not treat the Wizarding World's "wonder boy" too lightly. Within a mere six years of the Second War's conclusion Harry had contracted numerous frown lines, a few fairly obvious gray hairs, and aged, sagging eyes. The only thing that seemed to stay the same about his visage was his stature. Miraculously, he had managed to keep in decent shape despite little physical exertion. Hermione told him he was lucky to have a metabolism with a black belt. He fingered his belt loop on his trousers, trying to busy his fidgety fingers.

Nagging agitation and annoyance prodded at the young man's temples. He shook a small orange and white cigarette from his pant pocket carefully and near-silently. An orange lighter with scratch marks grasped tightly in his shaky left hand, Harry struck the wheel. A stationary ball of flame exploded from the tip, superseding the initial spark. The paper caught flame and whispy clouds appeared from the end. Harry grimaced as he took one slow, drawn-out puff of the nicotine roll.

He did _not_ enjoy this 'filthy habit', as he titled it. He scowled at Ron for it and refused to allow anyone see him perform it. The call of the nicotine claimed him when the well of anxiety once again began to fill with fierce sea-water. The waves always brought along with them undesired recollections and memories. "_No sailor was ever made strong on a calm sea." 'Screw the sailor. I don't have sea-legs.'_His only other consolation was the whiskey which rested comfortably in his kitchen. Once his urges would resurface, Harry would gladly down the harsh liquid and pass out on any surface his flat allowed. Harry glanced around his painfully familiar surroundings to avoid all conflict with reflection. Not that he was one who could easily avoid any type of conflict. Danger was the hunter; he the north. The compass always pointed towards him. Disarm the magnet; confuse the hunter.

'I wonder how the Bermuda Triangle is this time of year?'

The walls were painted a deep red and complimented the low lighting. The kitchen, also low lit, was a dull amber and bled into the darker red of the living room. A few scattered oak tables and chairs surmised the decor and were nothing profound. A tall teak cabinet stood in the back corner near the drawn window. Muggle books lined the shelves, but on the top shelf - where no one could see without standing on a stool of some kind - a small chest contained the last remnants of Harry Potter's Wizarding Life. Remnants is a strong word. They didn't survive; they didn't prevail, either. They just _were_. Is that too bloody hard to understand?

The keys to the Black and Potter family vaults, the Peverell family Invisibility Cloak, a few Wizarding textbooks, and his eleven inch Holly wand with a phoenix feather core were the only items in his immediate possession. The only other magic related object was his floo-infused fireplace that was only routed to The Burrow and Ron and Hermione's house in Scotland. Harry attempted to avert his eyes from the chest, but he could not tear his attention away from it's alluring aura. He tried to admire the items it contained, yet he only felt malice and rage fill his heart at the thought of their presence.

The television set was on and some arbitrary soap opera filled the otherwise silent abode. The single-touched cigarette burned to ash and Harry stood to dispose of it in the exquisite fireplace. A thump sounded from somewhere and Harry flicked his head to the door in horrified shock. As if someone had flipped a switch - a broken switch, like the kind you see in an 80's horror movie - in his head, Harry rushed to the treacherous wooden door. His shaky hands unlocked, locked, unlocked, locked , unlocked the mechanisms. If the door dare betray him, he was comfortable burning it. Set the fire; burn the witch! _Lock ,unlock, lock, unlock._

His breath became raspy and stretched out. Once he was certain the door would not betray him, he ran a trembling hand through his unruly hair._ Sea legs...sea legs. Can you buy those online?_ Tapping his feet he settled back down to watch the television. Fidgeting fingers shuffled through the seemingly endless channels with seemingly endless apathy.

"_President Ruthorford announced the United States' Senate's Declaration of War today..."_

Harry flinched. Let's avoid contemplation on this bright evening. He quickly and efficiently changed the channel to a harmless episode of a 90's sitcom with a surface-level plot. His eyes once again distracted, and the television was put to little use. Funny how one little word makes its way around the brain. Down the ear canal and straight into the cerebral cortex. Can it affect the hippocampus; make it remember things it doesn't want to? His frontal lobe sure thought so. But the brain anatomy is just so bothersome.

Without warning, the telephone rang

"Hello?"

Yes, this is he.

Not interested.

Thank you, Ma'am, but I'll have to pass.

Have a pleasant evening".

Almost immediately following, the phone rang once more.

"Ma'am, I told you I'm not inter-".

An excited yelp sounded on the receiver and Harry bit his lip in surprise. The line cut off and he was left to stare at the phone in complete bewilderment.

* * *

><p>He found him. He actually found him. Draco almost smiled. His labors did bear some fruits, which was a huge relief. Relief wasn't exactly an emotion he was too familiar with the past few years. It was strange to feel. His shoulders felt less heavy, as if an invisible burden had released its grasp- albeit reluctantly. With great care, he placed the strange muggle device back on its metallic pedestal. He still wasn't entirely sure how the black wires and speaker box worked, but, without a doubt in his mind, the voice he had heard belonged to the man he was searching for. Funny how the brain works. Remembering the things you don't want to remember and forgetting the things you do.<p>

But it worked out for the best in the grand scheme of things. '_Right?'_ More importantly: What is the grand scheme of things? Is it his life, the life of the Malfoy, or perhaps the life of everyone he now stood around? What did they offer to his destiny? '_You don't even believe in fate, you twit.'_ Charming fancy to entertain nonetheless.

The ragged blond boy stood awkwardly and out-of-place in a corner telephone booth on one of London's many crowded streets. He tried, and failed, to ignore the judgmental stares of those crowded around him. He felt their eyes like daggers in his back. Breathing heavily and attempting to focus, a worn Draco Malfoy produced an equally worn scrap of paper from his robe pocket. A list of numbers and unfamiliar addresses was scrawled nearly illegibly across the margins. Five address-phone number combinations were scratched out furiously. Draco circled the number he had just dialed and its corresponding address with great joy. His eager and unrested hands shuffled themselves around the paper, creasing it in three places like his father had done so many times with his top secret business letters. He remembered seeing him fold letters with care so many times when he used to spy on the patriarch's study.

That recollection stung at the youngest Malfoy as he attempted to keep his mind oriented on the task at hand. He stepped cautiously out of the sauna of a telephone booth into the cool breeze of London evenings. With his head held low, he beelined towards the nearest bus stop. Many dangerous and heavy thoughts loomed over the young man's head, yet he still managed to walk with purpose and stride. Attention from on lookers seemed to radiate towards him. Draco began to feel extremely uncomfortable with the painful stares of muggle common-folk. Sweat appeared on his furrowed brow. '_Great. As if you didn't stick out enough.'_

Just as he arrived at the nearest street corner, a tall red monstrosity similar to the smaller four-wheeled contraptions the muggles rode in pulled to the curb with a wheeze and a clunk of an engine. A large roar and hiss left the doors as they opened wide to swallow the men and women waiting patiently for their turn. Draco's eyes bulged from his head, and he desperately tried to keep calm. He repeatedly told himself that the mechanism would not cause him harm. This self-assurance did little to calm his quivering stomach which threatened to betray his dignity and release his lunch (or lack thereof) onto the street. As the muggles began to board the monster, Draco joined them from the rear with great trepidation. He delved into his shallow pockets as he ascended the clanking stairs. He pulled out the last of his muggle money and looked for a slot to place the coins.

"Hey, buddy, you gonna pay or what?" A disgruntled driver practically growled at the odd blond fidgeting with his fingers. Draco felt his skin crawl and his heart skip a beat. The driver grunted and motioned towards a small basket with coins in it. To avoid all conflict, Draco threw the last of his money into the basket and apologized to the increasingly pissed-off driver. As the bus started, Draco hastened to a seat and sunk towards the window.

His attempts to conceal himself did not go well.

"You're not from around here, are you mister?".

Draco's eyes dilated. His heart rate increased as his thoughts raced in his head. Did they find him out already? What was going to happen to him? He _couldn't_ go back! Biting his sore tongue he turned his head to face the source of his interrogator.

A girl about the age of eleven sat swinging her legs on the tall bus seat with a questioning look on her dreadfully cute and round face. Her auburn hair was tied into two pigtails, and she radiated a childish innocence. Draco practically reprimanded himself for being so afraid of as harmless a creature as her. His face turned a little red and he opened his vice-gripped mouth.

"What makes you say that?" he asked, his voice cracking from neglect. The little girl giggled and he frowned back.

She scrunched her nose to answer his question; "You're dressed funny!", she said with uncontained laughter. Draco allowed a 'tuh' sound to pass his lips. He had no choice to agree with her. Relative to those on the London streets, Draco stuck out like an apple in a stack of oranges. His dress robes had become quite the deterrent to his supposedly discrete plan.

"And," the little girl ventured, "You're looking for something". She smiled at him and sneaked lithely into his the seat next to him. Draco flinched, but he did not take his ever-watchful eyes off of her.

"Looking for something?" he said in a whisper. "How do you figure that?". A small giggle once again sounded from her saintly lips.

"You're lost. I can tell. My daddy says men don't look lost unless they're looking for something!". She swelled with pride and her smile reached her pointy ears. Draco laughed to himself and shook his head.

"Your father sounds like a very smart man." Draco told her, exhaling loudly. Look at me, he thought, complimenting bleeding muggles. What have I become?

"So...What _are _you looking for, mister?".

"Nothing".

"Everyone's lookin' for something".

Draco stared at her blankly. This girl was becoming quite irksome.

"An old...friend." he prompted. The blond nearly choked on the last word. The small girl frowned; It didn't look pleasant on her, Draco concluded.

"Why did you lose him?".

"I'm sorry?".

"If you're looking for him that means you must have lost him". Her face was intent and focused on Draco's. He snorted but her expression did not soften. He suddenly realized, as if it hadn't been obvious, that it wasn't a rhetorical question.

"I...well...we didn't always see eye-to-eye all the time." he drawled, though it didn't contain the pretentiousness that it usually did. Draco attempted to suppress his laugh but failed miserably. _'Under-exaggeration of the century.'_ he thought caustically. The girl ignored his laugh and continued with her question reel.

"Oh, okay. Is that why you're so nervous?".

Draco's jaw hung there for a while. This girl was too inquisitive for her own good. In quiet disbelief he shook his head as the bus reared on. He soundlessly smoothed his robes trying his best ignore the difficult question. He settled on a vague answer in an attempt to satiate her curiosity, which he seriously doubted would happen.

"Yes. It is one of the reasons I'm a bit nervous." Draco shook the words out like marbles from a bottle. The girl scrunched her little nose again and it quickly became irritating to Draco. She digested his words and her eyes lit up like a full moon. Draco was quite startled.

"OH! I know!". She was bouncing on her tiny pink hands. "My daddy said when he first met mama he was really nervous, too! He said he counted backwards from ten and ,when he got back to zero, he was calm and ready to face the world!". Her excitement and energy was a blinding contrast to Draco's downtrodden mood. He almost drowned in her enthusiasm. He tried to blink away the initial shock.

"Uhm...I'm not sure if that will solve anything." He chose his words carefully. Not careful enough, however.

"B-But, Mister! You _have _to! You just have to!" She was on the edge of her seat and on the verge of tears. The last thing Draco needed was a blubbering muggle child on his hands. Desperately, he tried to calm the girl.

"Alright," he shouted the words, "I promise!".

Her eyes lit up and smiled angelically at him. "It's your stop now, mister!".

Draco was startled by her proclamation, but he quickly realized she was correct. He stared at her while she fidgeted with a stray strand of hair. Curiosity overwhelmed him.

"What's your name?". The question was innocent, but to him it seemed precarious and otherworldly to ask a muggle their given name. Malfoys don't care about muggle names.

"Anna! Anna Molly, mister!" she said, giggling. He blinked and heard the last of the muggles descend the steel stairs. In a hurry he jumped out of the seat. In his haste, he had only one glimpse back at the crowded bus to attempt and get a look at the small brown-haired figure. Draco saw no sign of her as he edged off the mechanical giant.

* * *

><p>The bus lurched away from view and Draco turned to gaze down the desolate street. Not a face turned to stare at his rugged figure nor his overdressed attire. The night hung gloomily above his head and pressed like a dumb bell on Draco's weak shoulders. No moon shone above to guide his path, but the dim street lights guided his path down the chalked-up sidewalk<p>

_10_

He urged his feet forward and gulped at the realization of his current endeavors. For a moment he thought of turning around but pushed forward with great self-persuasion. _left foot, right foot, left foot._

_9_

Draco saw a dead rabbit in the street and sympathized with it. Dead innocence.

_8_

His feet began to numb, but he knew it was now or never. We shall see if the Wizarding World's Savior could be his very own salvation.

_7_

The apartment complex was quiet and near silent. He opened the double doors and gasped sharply when a loud creaking noise burst from the hinges.

_6_

The staircase seemed to go on forever. Number 356 played over and over again in his looping mind. Draco's thoughts quickened, but his heart was winning the race. He felt his heart ache to burst from the worn flesh of his chest.

_5_

Fear. The emotion gripped him and the walls seemed to close in around him, suffocating and stealing his breath. The stairs shouted at him as he pushed down on them with heavy feet. _'What the hell am I doing here?'_

_4_

Draco considered turning around once more, but his iron-weighted feet refused to connect with his dark thoughts of retreat. _346,347,348..._

_3_

The weakened blond figure stood like a chipped-from-perfection gargoyle at a wooden door labeled with gold-painted numbers stuck to the exterior. He read the number 356 over and over again. His knees went weak and cowardice plagued his heart.

_2_

_Knock once. Knock twice. Knock thrice. 'Well now you just sound desperate?' 'Well aren't you?'_

_1_

"Who's there?"

_0_

Harry heard the knocks at the door. He didn't appreciate their presence, yet he heard them regardless. They were tantamount to something he'd read once in an Edgar Allen Poe poem. Not that it matters much; Harry hated birds.

_'Who doesn't hate birds?'_

He muttered a half hearted "Who's there?" while staring down the door as if it was to blame for the intrusion. Harry glanced at the antique clock and frowned. It wasn't mail at this hour and the only people with gaul to visit him would floo in. Besides, he hadn't heard any news of visitors. The idea of ignoring the potential guest was quite appealing; however, his last remnant of courtesy seemed to be bubbling up in the wake of his alcohol consumption. His gut was telling him a decision to open the door would be catastrophic. Harry was almost certain that whatever lied on the other side of his worldly barrier would be the culprit of his almost certain suffering. He rarely gained happiness from the outside world. Doors that are forced opened cannot be closed.

Harry wondered when he had started to revert towards broken logic in order to validate himself.

He felt numb but reluctantly allowed his feet to glide him to the door. He stood there for a moment or two. His alcohol-induced bravery drained away from him. A shivering hand grazed the lock and pulled back as if it was engorged in fire. He bit his lip and clenched his fist at his sides. The uncut nails sank into the flesh but the only emotion he could feel was shame. One slow sorrowful step at a time, Harry backed away from the door and retreated to his armchair. The door stared back at him, unmoving. It's funny, really, the emotions an inanimate object can provoke in any given person. Harry had become rather susceptible to unwanted emotions these past few months.

"Don't look at me like that..." he muttered under his hoarse breath. Tilting his head back, the black-haired boy imbibed the rest of the whiskey, scorching his raw throat as it slid down the path to his empty stomach. Harry fought violently against the urge to get sick all over the coffee table in front of him. His stomach turned something vile, boldly pulsing behind his scarred skin. He was surprised his world-weary flesh was not yet used to the mistreatments he so frequently inflicted onto himself.

The bottle slipped from his hand and he brought his knees to his chest, resting his heavy head on one knee. The bottle rolled noisely across the stained carpet to rest against a pile of congruent bottles. He didn't have the energy to be disgusted in himself. Instead, he allowed, the comfort of darkness to surround him and he slowly faded into the sweetness of a dream-less sleep.

**A/N: **This chapter was relatively short, but it serves its purpose. The following chapters will all be longer. I hope you enjoyed it. Please, if you can find time, review. I rely on feedback in order to become a better writer. Thank you for reading.

TBC


	2. Den of The Lion

Chapter Two - _Den of the Lion_

Harry awoke the next morning sprawled across the increasingly uncomfortable floor. A small drool puddle turned the carpet to a darker fringe around his mouth. His eyes were fluttering with disturbance; this could NOT have happened again. This scene was all too familiar for the raven and every time he found himself in this particular situation, his self pity managed to increase. This time he considered not getting up, but the unbearable pain in his lower back had a whole other plan. He swallowed hard and scowled at the sandpaper feeling of his abused throat. As if the psychological damage from the previous night's actions weren't haunting enough, now he had to live through a brutal hangover. He just knew this one would prove to be much more vicious than the last.

Rolling onto his back, he heard his bones crack and muscles pop in places where they probably shouldn't have. A large groan forced itself out of his lips and the world flashed with multi-colored dots at the sudden and unwanted movement. Harry rolled his head to the bottles. "Never...again", he whispered. He wondered what the purpose in lying to himself was.

His hand reached blindly for support and the shaking fingers found a way to grasp onto the couch as Harry slowly, but surely, forced himself to his feet. His body felt like giving up, yet he still sought a refuge in the dimly lit kitchen. In his blind stupor, Harry miraculously set the tea pot on the stove without burning himself. He pulled out the tea bags and multiple pills in an attempt to quell his insanely painful ailments. He busied one hand with his preparations and the other with fruitless attempts to sooth his aching lower back. Once all was set he leaned against the cupboard near the door and breathed heavily. His breathing had no regular pattern, for the lungs refused to follow the rules of pulmonary behavior this fine morning. Rules of the body and mind were meant to be bent, broken and shaped. Shattered and morphed until they were nothing but memories.

The flame flickered on the stove, licking at the metal teapot. Harry smiled in spite of himself. The flames reminded him of someone. Someone he once knew; someone he once trusted. The fiery exterior with a soothing center was just like the young woman who had first made him feel like he had some sort of family.

But when you touch fire, your hands get burned.

Harry's head was now throbbing with unbearable pain. His brain busied itself by bending the rules along with his lungs- partners in unforgivable crimes. He considered calling them out on their delinquent behavior, wondering how many years a set of lungs could be locked up for fraud- or perhaps vandalism. Harry digressed realizing that the brain would easily hold its own in court. That was the organ's occupation after all- getting out of messes. By that logic, Harry considered, his brain was quite lousy at its job. His job? Her job? _My job?_

He'd give anything to be surrounded by the dreamless darkness right about now. He grimaced at the cupboard where it lay open. Not one bottle of whiskey was left._ 'Funny_,' he thought._ 'I could've sworn there was six bottles yesterday. Or maybe that was the day before?' _

Harry swallowed the saliva gathering in his mouth, grimacing at the pain. The physical agony was edging its way up the raven's shivering body. The tea seemed to take ages, and it allowed Harry's mind to drift towards uncomfortable thoughts. Things the brain could definitely be locked up for. Consider war crimes, homicide (of childhood that is), and the High Crime of Treason. Lock and shackle with forgotten memories and the bones of the dead. Wash the blood with blood; Repent for sin with sin. Seal him up tight where he can't bend the rules again. Drown in your self-perpetuated remorse. Possibly make some _Shaw-Shank Redemption_-esque recriminations towards the heart who promptly reminds you this isn't a Stephen King novel. Damn the heart. Damn it for its silly emotions. He's the real culprit here. Blame the brain all you want; the heart is the master-mind. He laid the plans, sent the man, bought the dagger - a wand in this little exercise - and walked away with the burden. Yet he doesn't feel the need to be ensnared in this place. '_It's not fair.'_

Nothing about the previous night seemed to be in his recollection. He didn't even know the date. Not that knowing would bring him any sort of comfort. He had become rather complacent living in a state of senseless ignorance. Ignorance is bliss and what not.

Regardless, his nomadic eyes wandered to the calendar.

If he had to guess, it was probably Saturday - grocery day or perhaps a day of reckoning. What's in a name anyway? Tuesday, Thursday; they're all the same. Just another day and another night. Leaving for the grocery store was an endeavor of Harry's precarious past. He paid the fee to have his groceries delivered to his front door so he wouldn't have to bother making the trip on his lonesome. Or at least that's what he told Hermione. In reality, he was terrified of the trip to the store and refused to make it himself. He would put that burden on the muggle teenager paying his way through college. He figured grabbing the box of groceries waiting outside his door as quickly as possible would be a difficult task with his aching back; however, Harry knew it had to be done. It's not like he could just sit in here and starve. Hermione would be so displeased to floo in and find him dead from self-denial. That would be cruel.

Without any remembrance of the night's previous events, Harry made his way over to the door to which his flat lead to the complex's hallway. He clenched his left hand into a fist as his right busied itself with the intricate locking mechanisms. His lungs expanded and filled with oxygen to prepare his mind. Roughly he swung the door open.

To say Harry was _shocked_would be a slight understatement. Words fail to describe the cluster of emotions which suddenly ravaged his wounded heart. Collapsed in a heap a mere foot from his door way was a pale blond creature. His clothing was worn and was much too common than anything Harry had previously seen him wear. His eyes were shut tight, and he appeared to be in some state of unconsciousness - not necessarily sleep. His knees were folded in a rather disturbing way that seemed more than simply uncomfortable. Harry was further shocked to see no shoes on his feet. Holed socks were his only cover from the elements. The boy's hair lacked its usual gratuitous sum of gel but was more than compensated by a large quantity of natural grease. Draco Malfoy wasn't looking like his primed self as of late, it would seem.

Without warning, a pair of ghastly grey eyes fluttered open from the blond figure.

To make yet another under-exaggeration, Harry panicked. He was perfectly content with ignoring the reality of the figure outside his doorstep. To see it animate with human motion, however, choked his breathing passage-ways and shook his nervous system. He could feel his heart rate sky-rocket and fleeing tactics ran across the forefront of his thoughts. The blond pulled its head from the ground and sat on his knees. Impractically, his stress managed to increase. Reality enjoyed making Harry its bitch, he concluded.

"Potter?"

_'Shit.'_

* * *

><p>'Well, this must be an interesting sight' Draco thought.<p>

He wished the raven haired boy would stop staring at him like he was covered in blood and sweat. It was quite disarming. He wasn't entirely sure how he ended up where he was; last night's events were blurred together and didn't seem to make much sense. The last clear memory he could piece in his mind was his frantic phone calls in a London telephone booth. Now he had managed to find himself on his knees at the front side of "The Great Harry Potter". He sneered internally. That title did not seem to reflect the true form of the man that stood before him.

He didn't look so "Great". In fact, Draco decided, it was quite obvious that the years had been much less kind towards Potter than towards him. He had to fight the Malfoy pride that welled up in him. It wasn't his fault he was impeccable and without physical flaw. Malfoy's were just naturally perfect. Potter's gene pool wasn't the most elegant of the bunch, especially when compared to the flawless bloodline of the Malfoy name. He gazed at the raven from his position on the carpet.

His hair was longer than he remembered but still as unruly as ever. When the light shined just right, however, he caught glimpses of a few grey hairs. His clothes were drab and didn't look like they were to be worn in public situations. His face was pulled back into a shocked expression that worried Draco slightly. What troubled Draco the most, though, about his appearance was the lack of ardor and passion in the raven's eyes. It was deeply disconcerting. He furrowed his tired brow and tried to create a coherent sentence to explain his presence. At this point, he still wasn't entirely sure what he was doing in front of Harry Potter's flat. It seemed like a good idea at a previous moment in time.

"If you plan to kill me, know that I have my wand just across the room. If I don't manage to reach it, Hermione will be here this afternoon and will notice my disappearance. Knowing her, it won't take long to trace my murder back to you". Draco looked up.

"Excuse me?" he ventured.

"You heard me".

He didn't mean to laugh. It was truly inappropriate, but he just found this situation too surreal. It was almost preposterous for Harry to think that Draco was in any condition to harm anything- let alone a man as capable as Harry. He wasn't so naive' to believe that Harry hadn't the skills to hex him back to last Thursday nor was he willing to attempt to harm his potential savior.

The idea occurred to him, however, that his presence warranted absolutely no explanation. That part of his under-developed plan had never exactly been thought out. No wonder Potter felt threatened. It's not every day an ex-Death Eater shows up at your doorstep. The existence of their bitter rivalry throughout their Hogwarts' years probably didn't ease that shock either.

Draco pushed himself to his feet, his shoulders still shaking with his hollow laughter. He was beginning to see that maybe Potter wasn't his best choice in seeking salvation. But what's a good choice without a few bad ones to ruin it?

"Murder you? Is that what you think I'm here to do?" Draco drawled out the words without hesitation. He saw Harry's glare which truly made his blood chill. He allowed a silent smirk grace his lips

"Be careful where you point that scowl, Potter. If your memory has so retreated from you, then I must remind you that my family is quite infamous for our...leer". His words were so overly calculated that Draco feared Harry would expose his facade by mere conversational observation. Instead he saw a nerve nearly pop from Harry's forehead. He forgot how enjoyable pissing Potter off was. The door suddenly slammed shut and he heard heavy footsteps stomp into the room behind it. A lopsided grin was plastered on the blonde's handsome face. This was... not how he expected this to go.

But it was a start.

Draco called out into the doorway, "If you plan to just ignore me, you should be aware that I am a very patient man now. I could be out here for days". That, of course, was a terrible bluff that he knew he could never follow through with. He was amazed at how calm he had suddenly become. Once he had finally seen Harry it was as if his previous fears had disappeared. Something...exciting had taken its place. And that deeply worried Draco.

A loud muffled groan sounded through the wood. Oh yes, he thought. This will be much more enthralling than previously anticipated.

_Lock the door; throw away the key._

* * *

><p>Harry's mind was not capable of much at the moment. It found solace in piecing together profanities in one long string to be repeated over and over again. It did little to calm his beating heart, sweating hands, and bruising headache. Every object in the room suddenly became treacherous. His raving arms swung at a lamp on his untidy end table. It toppled over and shattered rather loudly as it came in contact with the amber wall. Plaster pieces fell to the floor and made tiny shouts at Harry in a rueful manner.<p>

There was very little surprise in Harry's isolated life of which he was quite pleased. This event, however, broke that calm which he was so familiar. He could almost feel his blood pressure soar. He dared to fathom that what had just occurred was a figure of his anxious and guilty conscience. Maybe he had a split personality? Rare occurrences had a habit of forcing themselves upon Harry so that notion wasn't completely baseless.

He now found himself leaning shakily upon a cabinet. Adrenaline and fear pumped vigorously throughout his veins. Foolishly, Harry attempted to restrain his staggered breathing, to which no` O;'12 such luck was afforded. Escape plans and strategies began to stream throughout the entirety of his thoughts. To his utter horror, a muffled voice called from beyond the villainous doorway.

"Temper, Potter." the voice taunted.

Two words and Harry suddenly felt a beast awaken within his hollow chest. An unfathomable rage burst from the nothing, and suddenly dispersed itself across his entire body. It was like a forest fire: unstoppable and indiscriminate of its victims. The beast roared with anger so strong, physically shaking The Boy Who Lived. Throwing precaution to the wind he stormed across his living room to the small box filled with his magical items. His fingers groped for the familiar holly and white-knuckled it once they had found it. Each step was a heavy stone slamming against anvil steel.

The door swung open with such force Draco was nearly swept off his feet. Harry let out a deep growl and pushed the tip of his wand into Draco's clothed chest. Promptly, he edged both of his calloused hands above his shoulders and allowed himself to be at the mercy of the suddenly wrathful raven haired boy.

"Give me one bleeding reason not to hex your sorry ass right now!" Harry bellowed. The fair-haired boy gaped as that missing passion and livelihood suddenly erupted within his forest eyes. The severity in his stare rolled over Draco like a crash of thunder. It took all his self-restraint not to shiver at the gesture.

Draco sputtered out, "I don't have my wand, and I'm not he-".

"LIES!" Harry roared in complete disbelief and untrusting. The holly was now pressing so hard against Draco's flesh that he was sure it would bruise. Draco swallowed the saliva in his mouth and grimaced as it slid past his sand-paper throat. He had to handle this carefully. Draco began to calculate his every word, motion, and gesture extremely carefully. One wrong move and he could be dead.

"Potter," he began slowly, "I'm going to up-turn my robe pockets." Draco carefully lowered his hands to his sides, making sure he never once broke eye contact with Harry. That would mean almost certain death; that he was confident in. As his suddenly calm hands delved into his robe pockets, he saw Harry's upper lip curl into a look similar to sensing a foul scent. He bit his lower lip and turned the pockets out to reveal their complete emptiness.

Harry's expression did not soften. "Where is it?" he spat.

"I haven't held a wand in nearly six years, Harry Potter." Draco's tone was calm and silky.

Harry suddenly remembered that the Malfoy family had been put on magical probation. Even after his testimony in their favor shortly after The Second Wizarding War, the Wizengamot had ruled the Malfoy family untrustworthy of magical use for a minimum of ten years. If his memory served him correctly, all three Malfoys were also to be on house arrest for a period no less than two years. He was now wishing it had been much more than that.

The venomous thought of recalling his testimony even entered his mind; but not even he had sunk that low to execute it. He could not simply ignore the fact that it was indeed Draco's wand which rebounded the spell that ultimately killed The Dark Lord, as painful as those recollections were. He could never forgive the Malfoy family for many crimes and abuses they had committed, but, even now in his sordid state, would not see them sent to a place like Azkaban.

Well, Lucius Malfoy could do with a few months in there, perhaps.

Draco was pleased to feel the holly slowly lose tension and slightly pull away from his now sore chest. It did not, however, drop. The wand remained pointed at him. He felt that he should wait for his interrogator to fire another question. Attempting to speak would be...most unwise in his current predicament.

A gap of silence and uncomfortable glaring commenced. Draco was becoming sensationally uneasy in his own skin and wondered if it was possible to simply turn into a pool of robes and skin and evaporate. Harry's gaze never once left Malfoy. Somewhere along his meandering thinking, he gathered another question.

"Explain yourself. What are you doing here?"

Ah. Now they had come to the question he had hoped would never come. Some ludicrous part of him thought that perhaps Harry would read his mind and just gladly swing open his door, and they would have a nice cup of tea. In another time that could have been so.

He was reminded of that train ride so many years ago where Potter had refused his invitation of friendship. Would things be different now? How would life have been different for Draco Lucius Malfoy if The Boy Who Lived had been his friend? He recalled the golden trio: the Granger brat, Potter, and his lolly-gagging ginger friend. Could the fate he had suffered been avoided if he had pushed aside his pride and befriended the eventual freedom-fighters?

It was a curious, and ultimately pointless, concept to mull over. Bursting from two voids on intermingling thought processes, Draco began improvising. This particular acting he had become fairly acquainted with as the years rolled on.

"I'm on the run" he claimed. This was, if not examined too hard, the truth. Four years ago he had fled Malfoy Manor as soon as he could. That is to say as soon as the two-year house arrest had been lifted and the over-seeing Aurors vacated the no-longer Unplottable manor, Draco executed the plan he had so long formulated in his mind. He took nothing but his wand and small pouch of galleons. He had got word shortly after that Lucius was looking fervently for his heir. At the time, he had been in the confines of a decrepit pub centered in the magical cloister of Skargreave. Worn down and low on galleons, he had overheard two elderly witches, obviously pure bloods, talking about how 'worried' The Malfoys must be for their only - and therefore favorite - son. He tried not to laugh at the very concept of his father feeling an emotion that would associate with sympathy over his son.

It was true, he supposed, that Lucius was indeed worried. And he had no doubts in his mind that he was searching for Draco. He figured that his earnest search for his only son probably played in the matriarch's political and economical favor. Malfoys were never a family to turn away from opportunity when it came to them. It was this intuition, undoubtedly, which saved them from a fate involving Azkaban. However, Draco was not so delusional to believe that his dear father's worries were based in the well-being of his son.

Narcissa had been unable to produce another male for Lucius, one of his greatest disappointments in his wife. It had then fallen on Draco to produce offspring which could then carry on the Malfoy name. This burden is what made Draco so valuable to his father, and what made him valuable still.

Up until one year after The Second Wizarding War, Draco had accepted this strict expectation and grudgingly allowed his father to suit him out to arbitrary women from other pureblood and wealthy families. It had become difficult for his father, Draco noted, because of the smirch upon their name, for him to find wiling and worthy women to marry Draco off to.

Draco was pulled from these searing memories as Harry began, once again, to speak. He was keen to notice the wand had once again been pushed against his throbbing chest. When did his heart beat become so labored?

"And? That involves me how, exactly?" Harry demanded. His words were awfully bitter, and Draco wondered if he had possibly been gargling acid in his free time.

This question was the climax, wasn't it? It was the 'Do or Die' moment in this small play consisting of two very confused protagonists. What was the right answer to this little quiz? Is there a right or wrong? Maybe this was a short-answer question - opinion based, perhaps.

"I …need a place to stay."

As soon as the words left his mouth he realized how ridiculous they sounded. In no form of reality was this either a reasonable request or warranted an affirmative response. He felt like smashing his throbbing head through a wall. He tried not to look at Harry because his expression just furthered his embarrassment.

Harry's mouth lay lax, a gap between his lips quite present. His eyebrows were high on his forehead and his green eyes refused movement. Suddenly he let out a high-pitched, mirthless laugh. But it wasn't any type of laugh like Draco had ever heard. It was more of a cackle which made it all that more scary.

"Oh, that's just fucking _rich_, Malfoy. Let me just set out an extra fucking plate for you, your highness!" Harry shrieked. A terrifying smile was plotted on Harry's face that made Draco wince. His eyes vibrated in their sockets and Malfoy felt his knees go weak. Apparently some realization graced Harry's mind as his expression soured.

"Holy shit, you're serious." Harry whispered.

Though it felt absolutely ridiculous, Draco offered a small nod in Harry's direction. The wand once again began to punish his chest with a painful jab to his sternum.

"Where…Where do you get off asking _me_ favors, Malfoy? If it wasn't for me you'd be worse than dead right now! My sympathies do not extend to allowing you to invade my personal life!" Harry bellowed. He was physically shaking from head to toe now.

Before Draco could get a word in edge-wise, Harry shouted "If you know what's good for you, you will turn around and walk away. Find some other unlucky sod to bother with your unsightly presence."

Draco stepped back in complete shock. For some unknown reason, the raven's words were like lashes to bare skin. It was nearly impossible for him to stay the venomous retorts he dearly wished he could use to lash back.

He swallowed carefully and shot a recrimination of sorts back at Harry: "Sadly, Potter, I do know what's good for me. And that's a safe-house. I can't keep running."

"Running from what?" Harry shot. His brow was furrowed in malice.

That's an uncomfortable question. His first thought said it all; "So many things." But that was the _wrong _answer to this test. But, then again, this question didn't seem to have a right answer. So instead he opted for a silence, refusing to answer the question.

Harry's brow furrowed once again, his eye's narrowing accordingly. "Answer me!" He demanded.

Unable to hold his now rebellious tongue, Draco groped for words to lash back with.

"Where is she? The Weasley brat, that is. Gi-" Draco countered.

Harry suddenly became ferocious. He cut off his speech with a strong jab to his chest. A growl was held behind the Gryffindor's teeth. His eyes flashed with fire and wrath.

Harry screamed, "FINISH THAT DAMN SENTENCE, MALFOY! I FUCKING DARE YOU!"

"Ginevra, wasn't it?" Draco drawled.

It happened rather quickly. Many things did.

Harry's green eyes became extremely wild, verging on manic. The wand he held flicked backwards towards Harry's shaking side. Draco noticed a green light flash in the room behind Harry as someone he could not see flooed into the flat through a very sleek looking fireplace. Draco was struck by a large sum of magical energy which washed over him like a wall of heat that threatened to burn his skin and torch his organs. The force shook him to his very core and left him completely immobile. He was pushed to the wall opposite the door as two different voices called out two very different things.

"HARRY!"

"_Sectumsempra!"_

TBC


	3. Bad Blood

Chapter Three - _Bad Blood_

Even as the pain seared over Draco's right shoulder, he couldn't find his voice to create an audible scream. The spell's wound was now running with a river of Draco's blood through and over his tattered clothing. His left hand shot up instinctively to attempt the the blood from flowing, but it became quite obvious that the wound had been cut too deep for simple treatment. He stared at the wound until the pain and physical shock hit him like a brick wall.

Draco's jaw quivered as he slid slowly down the hallway wall via the small of his back. A trail of red followed his path down to the carpet.

_You just couldn't keep your mouth shut, could you?_

As his vision started to blur and Harry's frozen stance above him began to waver, Draco's mind attempted to recall the spell's origin, because even in his state of near-unconsciousness the spell was quite literally painfully familiar. His hearing might as well have not existed. What sounded like mumbling to him was coming out as shouts in reality just a few feet ahead of him.

"Merlin's beard!"

Harry shook himself of his astonishment. A tall brunette woman with bushy hair came barreling past him from the room to his rear. Her strong-gripped hand forced Harry away from the doorway. He heard his wand fall to the ground and watched in horror as it rolled quietly to a slowly widening puddle of blood on the carpet. One of his hands shot out to the door post to keep his balance. In a complete state of muteness, he watched as the bushy haired woman flicked a vine wood wand from a small latch on her thigh. At once she began to wave the wand masterfully over the wound on the blond boy's shoulder.

_"Vulnera Sanentur..."_

The flow of blood began to ease from the wound instantaneously. The delicate fingers of the bushy-haired woman glided over the clothing around the cut. In a show of her masterfully concealed strength, the woman tore the cloth around the wound with little effort or physical strain.. Red-stained, pale flesh was revealed from the opening. Harry saw the blond figure slouch suddenly and begin shaking at random intervals. His body was clearly acting out of reflex now, no longer under control. The spasms slowed with the second incantation.

_"Vulnera Sanentur..."_

The words leaving her mouth sounded poetic now; they were like putting lyrics to a bird's song. Harry watched, awe-struck, as he witnessed the spell being applied for the second time to the man in front of him. On the tall woman's command, the wound repaired itself readily. Draco's head lolled to the left shoulder and lay there motionless not including the ceremonious spasm from the lacerated arm. The incantation left the woman's mouth for one last time.

_"Vulnera Sanentur..."_

The third articulation of the spell caused most of the injury to disappear. Harry cringed, noticing that a rather large scar still lay plastered against the pale skin. With this came the sudden revelation of Draco's state. For the first time Harry was noticing how frail and beaten-down the blonde appeared. A strange feeling of guilt and pity enveloped him as he stared at the creature in front of him. Dreadful silence plagued the hallway.

"I took a huge risk healing him out here. I couldn't chance moving him, though. Quick, I'll clean him up inside. Carry him." the woman asserted towards Harry's direction.

"But, 'Mione-"

Hermione cut him off swiftly before he could continue fathoming excuses. "I do NOT want to hear your back talk, Harry Potter! You _will_ carry him inside this instant." she hissed. Not one ready to face the rage of a clearly wrathful Hermione, the raven-haired boy stumbled over to the unconscious Malfoy. With surprisingly great earnest, Harry tucked his right arm under both knees and his left hand slid past the base of Draco's neck. Minimal effort was required to lift him, and Harry was quite astonished to realize how light the Malfoy son was. Harry felt a small trickle of blood slide down his arm as he lifted the blond along with him while he stood. Hermione was swiftly at the pool of blood and the blood trail on the wall as soon as Draco had vacated the spot.

_"_Tergeo_." _she whispered under her breath, handling the words as if they were a delicate basket of eggs.

Harry was sure to keep his eyes focused on anything but the body he held. A strange mixture of disgust (with whom he wasn't sure), fear, and pity was his current emotional state. He noted that this was the most complex his emotional range had been in nearly two years.

_Scary._

Quickly feeling light headed as a result of carrying the blond boy, Harry bee lined to the sofa and placed the wincing, but still conscious, boy in a laying position. He quickly slid his hands from his flesh. He was shocked to realize how cold his fingers felt. As Hermione closed the door on the apartment, the raven crossed his arms in order to return some heat to his upper extremities.

As Hermione turned around, Harry instantly wished he could be anywhere else in the world besides in her wake.

"Harry. James. Potter."

She stomped over to his direction and took a vice-grip on the collar of his sweater. He frantically searched for any kind of escape path but found none. She pulled him close to her face, and Harry was terrified to see the seething glare in her eyes.

"What in the name of all that is holy did you think you were doing?" she scowled; her voice was like vinegar. With brute forced she forced him onto the opposing arm chair. He attempted to compose himself before answering, his dignity completely forgotten.

"But...but 'Mione you didn't hear what he said-"

"I DON'T GIVE TWO KNUTS WHAT HE _SAID, _HARRY! THAT WAS A DARK SPELL YOU USED! IN A MUGGLE BUILDING OF ALL PLACES! IF YOU WERE ANYONE ELSE YOU WOULD BE IN AZKABAN ALREADY." Hermione was furious. Her eyes suddenly became two piercing daggers capable of murder. Harry had seen her like this only on a few occasions. Of course he had seen her angry, but this exceeded normal "Hermione Anger" tenfold. She was stomping back and forth across his living room, her hands flailing in different directions. Her words were drowned out by the ringing in Harry's ears and the pounding thoughts against his throbbing temples.

"-hadn't showed up what would have happened, Harry? You don't know _any _healing spells! HE COULD HAVE DIED. DIED, HARRY."

Harry could tell he had no defense. The minute he had cast Sectumsemprahe had regretted it. The spell, which he had learned from Snape's potion's book in his sixth year, was Dark Magic he had only cast once before against the very same boy who lay across from him on the sofa. Regardless of limited excuses, he began grasping at straws.

"But, Hermione, it's Malfoy!" he sputtered.

"Oh! So CLEARLY that means you can _cut him open_! Bloody hell, Harry. Does he even have a _wand?_" Hermione snapped. She sounded offended and completely flabbergasted. She was staring at Harry with such a fierce look that it was impossible to lie to her without bursting into tears. He knew the answer right away, because it was a question he had demanded from the other boy. He now almost wished that Draco had had a wand on him.

"N-no."

"NO. NO WAND! HE COULDN'T EVEN DEFEND HIMSELF, HARRY." Hermione lashed bitterly.

Her face suddenly fell. Harry grimaced. He knew that look. No amount of time or hardships could prepare him for what he knew she was about to say.

"I'm so disappointed in you Harry..." she whispered barely audibly. She brought her eyes back to his. "The Harry I knew would never strike a defenseless man."

The raven could feel his heart stop. It sunk deep in his chest and a lump formed in his throat. Almost nothing could be worse than hearing Hermione utter those words. Each word a stab to his wounded heart, Harry felt completely defeated. A tidal wave of embarrassment and shame washed over him. He could not bring himself to look at either of the two creatures in his home. Tension built up in there to the point of explosion. Draco groaned from the couch.

Hermione's eyes snapped to his direction. "What is he doing here?" she asked quietly towards no one in particular.

Harry picked up the burden of answering Hermione's inquiry. "He said he was running." the raven responded.

"From?"

"We didn't get that far"

The brunette shook her head and headed towards the kitchen alone. As soon as she was out of Harry's view she allowed her posture to slouch and closed her eyes tightly. Visions of a younger and bubbly Harry running through an open field within Hogwarts grounds framed her nostalgic thoughts. The field was empty besides the two souls and the only sound was the call of birds and their conjoined laughter which echoed off the nearby mountains. A few first years stared at them from a nearby path in bemusement. Harry turned to Hermione and let out a careless laugh filled with life. His face was so much younger and held that childish innocence she had so nearly forgotten was possible for the dark-haired boy. Suddenly they collapsed heavily onto the emerald field, both children laughing themselves breathless about something Snape might have said, or perhaps they were running from Filch. It didn't really matter at the time. Ron came barreling out from behind a tree flailing his arms and calling their names. They continued to laugh as he stomped around them in a rage. She wasted no time in pulling him down to lie with them in the vegetation. He had become quite satiated after that. She smiled, noting how Ron's jealousy was one of the reasons she was so in love with him. She had also wondered if Ron would ever understand how Harry and herself were like brother and sister. She wished she could still feel those strong platonic emotions towards the boy only a few feet away.

The visions stretched and turned. She was now standing in a well lit hallway. The walls seemed rather close together and made the apartment complex seem extremely less homely.

Harry was in a newly bought home. Two of his hands wrapped lovingly around a red haired woman. She and Ron smiled affectionately in their direction. Ron was slightly apprehensive; Hermione saw this quite easily. They both wished the best for Harry since the war. He of all people needed some quiet now more than ever. Hermione noticed - but tried not to think about - that the red head wasn't pulling tightly to Harry as he was to her. She thought they made the rather queer couple, but Harry was completely enamored with her. And Hermione wasn't about t question her child-hood friend during his first period of freedom and peace in ages.

Later she would regret never saying anything.

"Miss Granger?"

Hermione let a small gasp escape her mouth as her heavy and sordid thoughts were swept away from her. Pivoting on her small feet, the brunette woman faced the voice. A more-pale-than-usual Draco Malfoy sat visibly uncomfortable on the couch he had been laid down on a few moments earlier. Harry, sitting on his hands, was glancing in every direction nervously.

"Yes?" she squeaked. It was quite strange, really. She held no grudge towards the Malfoy family. She never thought she would come to like them, and that had never transpired. Simply their involvement in the war and bad blood down the years of the family's existence was a clear signal that she and the Malfoys would never be on agreeable terms. But Harry's testimony at the end of the war had truly touched the girl's heart. She had grown a new-found admiration for Narcissa Malfoy, who had practically saved Harry from The Dark Lord. The entire court room had been moved by the kindness in the face of evil by the matriarch of the Malfoy family. Hermione was convinced that if not for Narcissa's bravery, Draco and Lucius would be celebrating their birthdays in Azkaban.

All that aside, years of bitterness between her and Draco were not about to disappear in a moment's notice. They were mortal enemies in school and she was always afraid of Draco beating her out for top student, which would have been completely unacceptable. She did feel an immense amount of pity for the boy, however, insinuating that the media's dipictions of the "Runaway Malfoy" were correct. She would certainly agree that his current condition warranted some ounce of sentiment and support from anyone - even sworn enemies.

"I offer my thanks. I presume it was your talents that saved me from dying in that hallway." Draco whispered.

Hermione's eyes expanded. She had not expected any type of thanks for her deeds, especially from Draco. It was common decency. She later figured that he probably hadn't seen much of human decency in the past six years. She noted how scratchy his voice was. It was almost as if it hadn't been used in ages. She had the strange urge to laugh as she envisioned dust puffing out from his throat.

_Old habits die hard._

She was about to respond when she froze. Draco's final words ringing in her mind _'...in that hallway'. _In her haste in healing Draco she had hardly realized the setting of their

She almost didn't notice Harry's clearly uneasy and shocked look as she swarmed Draco, pulling him off of the couch and practically dragging him to Harry's bedroom. She slammed the door behind her and latched the door shut with one of the many locking mechanisms Harry had installed on the pitiful looking door frame. She motioned for him to sit down on the bed, and he did so readily. He cringed as he sat, one arm clasped over his lacerated shoulder.

She was keen enough to notice a distinct look of fear plastered on his hollow face. She wasted no time, however, in order to reassure him.

"How did you do it?" Hermione demanded. She could feel it now; her brain was in over-drive mode. The metaphorical cogs turned faster than they had in ages as it worked to figure out a logical problem, literally interpreted onto real world surfaces. It was exciting and made her feel more youthful than she actually was. It was like diving and running at the same time. _Magic._

Draco raised an eyebrow at her.

"How did you do it? When I found you, Harry was _in _the hallway! How in the name of merlin did you pull something like that off? And on your first time seeing him in six years!" she fired as she paced back and forth at the foot of the bed.

This inquiry only seemed to further Draco's confusion. He stammered a few "wha-"'s and some "uh-"'s before falling silent. Hermione didn't even seem to be paying attention to him. He almost wanted to laugh, but a gut feeling of fear was filling his stomach and silenced him.

After what felt like years of silent pacing Hermione turned to him once again. She seemed ready to lecture him. He was certain he would recieve nothing less. Hermione's intellect was something he was no stranger to. Years of jealousy in school aren't easily forgotten. The only subject he ever felt competent in was Potions, simply because he could keep up with the child prodigy.

"Malfoy, Harry has not left these apartment walls in a little under two years." She began.

Draco just stared at her. Certainly that was just a joke, an exaggeration perhaps. But he detected not an ounce of deception in her voice and face. In fact, her visage was stern and held the stringent glare of a woman much more advanced in age. It was both intimidating and frightening. He didn't say a word and allowed her to continue her speech.

"Harry had a poor finish to his marriage - and ultimately relationship - with Ginny. As a result of that blow, he holed himself up in this filthy first we thought it was just a lapse, something we expected. But it didn't get better. As the months went on it got... progressively worse. We hardly saw him unless we showed up here. The only places he goes now is either Ron's mum's or our home in Scotland." she motioned towards the fireplace on the other side of the wall. "And even when he's at those places he refuses to leave the building."

"He hadn't left these walls in ages. No one could pull him out of this funk either. Not even Ron!" She was racing through her words now. Draco was in complete and utter shock. He was slowly starting to realize why he was pulled into a separate room. And he didn't like it.

"And then you show up! How long were you talking with him?" She suddenly demanded of him, stopping in her back-and-forth pacing.

Jumping from shock he answered her like a trained dog. "No more than ten minutes if I remember" he said.

At his words her face exploded with numerous emotions. Both of her arms flailed into the air and she began pacing again.

"Absolutely _ludicrous!_ Only _ten minutes!_" Hermione mused.

Draco became uneasy all over again. She kept shooting furtive glances in his direction as she stroked her hair and walked past him and back again.

"What did you say to him?" she asked, her voice lower than it had been a few seconds earlier.

Draco wracked his mind. His conversation with Harry wasn't coming through very clearly. "We... I asked him for a place to stay?" he responded. If it hadn't sounded pathetic before, it sure as hell sounded so now. If it wouldn't have furthered his shame, he would have dropped his hands in his hands right then and there.

"Well...As unorthodox as a request like that is, I still don't see how that relates to his extreme change in demeanor. I could hardly pull _any _emotion out of him. And then, all of a sudden, he's casting spells all over the place!" she said to no one in particular.

Draco turned a deep shade of red. Hermione suppressed a giggle

_Scary._

Inspiration struck her while she was staring at Draco's small frame

"You might just find yourself a place to stay after all, Mr. Malfoy."

TBC


End file.
